A week ago, I saw an old dog walking with difficulty, his human in tow. So I stopped and asked if I might take a picture. "Sure" was the reply. So out came my camera.
"He's a handsome old fellow. What's his name?" I asked as I got down on my knees and gave the dog a pat, aiming my camera at his nose.
"Delmer. He's 14."
"I'll bet he's seen a lot over his years, so many treats, so many walks," I chatted as I watched Delmer sniff me, sniff the grass, and look around slowly.
"It's is last day," she said, and her voice quivered with tears. "We're on our way home. He gets ten sausages for dinner."
I felt my face flush. I had intruded on a very special moment. Or perhaps I was confirming it. I took a deep breath. We talked about how hard it is to lose a beloved old dog. I took a few more pictures, feeling a tinge of guilt. Would I want a stranger photographing my dear old bub hours before I took him to the vet for a final injection? I didn't have an answer.
It was nice to meet you, Delmer.
Godspeed.
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